Barton County democrat. [volume] (Great Bend, Kan.) 1885-1915, 1887-05-12
A BOY PROPHET.
Little Docs Sign OF the Golden
Love Vine.


When Doc first came to live with us
it was in the early spring. He was a
pitiful-looking boy. He was little,
pufy-loOking chap, with a pale face,
small, bony arms, and short, weakly
looking legs, and rather sickly-looking.
-frizzled-up, straw-cOlored hair on his
head. There was no personal beauty
about Docs face and figure, and yet he
was not unusually hard favored. He
was commonplace. Only that and
nothing more. Only a pea in a pod
where dozen peas of similar appear
ance reposed. Only little wire-grass
boy, with not one redeeming feature
about him except his eyes. They were
only remarkable for the pathetic ex-
preston that fingered there. What lit
tie light that ever flashed from them
was of that sorrowful cast that one OBJ
serves lingering on the horizon after a
days rain has closed in q humid sun
set.
Doc lost his mother. That was the
tie that bound us to him. She was a
commonplace wire-grass woman, but
in her uncultured soul dwelt the same
traits of maternal love and cherishing
tenderness that are supposed to illum-
inc the high-born souls of those grand
danes whose white hands have never
battled against hard and evil fate for
the simple necessities of prolonging ex-
istence. She had nourished and cher
ished her little boy, as only fond
mother can nourish and cherish a weak
and fragile child. Ever on the watch,
she had stood between him and all the
wild streams of adversely that ragged
about their humble log cabin in the
desolate barrens.
When she died Doc took it to heart to
a greater extent than any of us thought
possible. He had been such a puny.
peevish, pettish sort of boy that we
thought that only his selfshness could
suffer. We were mistaken. Doc was
older than his age.
We'll remember how mother used
to tDast the crispest bits of brown corn
bread. softened with the fresh, sweet
butter, and how she used to put in a
big lump of that brown mush sugar in
his.coffee, so as to induce the little fell
low to eat.
''You know his ma is dead" she
used to say, land we must try to keep
him from missing her in every way we
cam"
And we were learning. We were
being taught the grandest lesson in
human lore-the creed of usefulness.
We could not get him to join us very
often in any play. He was too weak.
But when the afternoon sun shown
through the riffs in the great pine forests
he would creep out on the sunny side
with us and we would adjust oursports
TO his strength. Sometimes he would
look up from his play, and with his
eyes full of tears, he would exclaim:
my ma is dead! I can't never see
her no morcr' Then he would sob
and moan as if his little heart would
break, and / am not ashamed to say
we would cry too. might not the
good Lord take our dear mother. too?"
we asked ourselves.
All! my sainted mother! Thy love-
lighted brown eyes have been closed
to earthly scenes for many summers.
They closed your poor, tOil-worn
hands above your cold. still heart
long, long time ago, and the tall pines
have shed from their dropping bows
she purest distilled dews of heaven
above your lonely grave. and yet in
my dreams 1 see that face often and
again. and never accomplish good
deed or am guilty of bad one but
what yours is the first name that
flashes through my intellect. A man
may have ten thousand friends, even
two well beloved wives, but never but
one mother. Blessed be that holy
name above all earthly treasures most
sacred and longest cherished.
AS the spring days grew warmer and
the timid wood violets peeped forth on
banks where the sun fingered longest,
our protege grew more robust. There
was even faint tinge of blood in his
pallid cheek after short walk about
the plantation.
Deeper green grew the woodlands.
The rugged pines even touched them
selves up with few gay tufts of u